Not without you
by qwertysweetea
Summary: Marius wasn't the only one to kiss Éponine's forehead after she died.


Disclaimer: I do not own nor claim to own Les Misérables or any characters and places associated with Victor Hugo's novel, any screen or stage adaptations and musical soundtracks. No profit is made from the writing for this fanfiction.

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His knee's hit the ground, the thin fabric of his trousers instantly soaking up the nauseating cocktail of blood, dirt and rainwater. His hands followed shortly after; the gravel digging into his flesh, caking him in sticky mess. It was nothing compared to the jumble of thoughts all screaming, fighting to be at the forefront of his mind.

The night of the 5th should have been a good one for Montparnasse, as should the days that followed; with the Barricades erected the police, National Guard and all the security that Paris seemed to possess was distracted away from petty theft and robbery. He could have turned more houses that night than he usually could in the week, but he had been unsettled, and it was all because of her. Éponine Thénardier.

He wondered up and down the streets, head preoccupied by the few days past when he had seen her on the streets of Rue de Plumet, and the nagging restlessness that came with her absence. He was used to her presence, even if it was only in flicks here and there, but standing in the darkness then he could feel a lack of it. He wouldn't have put it past her to get caught up in the excitement of revolution, to get swept along by the crowds. Éponine cared little for life and even less for death, it had been a nature she was forced into; the Barricades were nests for people like them.

The evening dragged on, and then the morning came, and still no news but the eerie mutters of the blood-bath that had ensued. When it had reached the afternoon and there was still no news of her, Montparnasse headed in the direction of Rue de la Chanvrerie, without the darkness to cover him, and without much care at all.

Then he had found himself there. He had been expecting crowds. It was easier to sneak past the patrolling officers in a crowd. Blood and death was in the dampness in the air, but then he was not a stranger to death. He stepped over a body, and then another and another. He had made it round the remaining parts of the barricade before he felt the anticipation building in his chest. He paused by the door to settle his nerves and stuck his head into the entrance of the café. Bodies lay in an ordered fashion but she was not there.

She had got away; he had dared himself to think it was possible for her to have snuck out. She was small, clever, she always had been. He paused in front of one unfortunate. Claquesous, he could tell. The poor sod had a crack down the centre of his head, it oozed – he continued to walk. Claquesous was dead, but he had been clumsy in his decisions and choices. Not at all like Éponine, little sprite that she was, all dainty and delicate, and completely fearless. She would have got away…

He knew it was a mistake the moment he considered it but he allowed himself to hope for one moment longer. He moved past the building and round the corner through the back. And that is where he was, on his knees amongst the filth. The muddy crimson strained his hands, and it was the only thing to stop him from sobbing into them.

It was Éponine; dark hair sprawled over her grey cheeks, dry blood smeared over her colourless lips and trailed down her chin and neck, and continued down her chest but he could not follow it from grief, or shame, or any combination of emotions that he could not place.

He slumped from his position on his knees, onto his legs and he pulled his way that little bit closer. With cold hands he lifted her even colder cheeks and placed her head on his lap. Tears fell onto her face and they sat there. He, looking at her. Her, staring vacantly somewhere beyond him. He allowed himself to feel guilty as his salty tears left their trail from her face till they fell to the floor, because her complaining about that was better than the alternative.

His chest felt as though it was clutched in an ever tightening fist.

What had he expected?

This! He had expected this!

Then why had he come?

Because it is Éponine!

It was Éponine.

"You're getting tears all over me." She said, dead lips parting with a smile. "Compose yourself. You look ugly when you cry."

She had always has such a gracious smile. Montparnasse had always said her smiled could have ignited light in the darkness and warmth in the cold. They, the Patron Minette, had told him he was gushing like a boy his age ought but they had not known her smile like he had. Anyone was capable of falling in love with it, whatever love was on the streets.

"You've left me alone. I want to be mad at you for that, but I can't." He replied, lips curving as if he was smiling himself. His breath cracked against the waves of vocal sobs that were tearing free from his throat. "Maybe in the future I will hate you for it. When I stop loving you I will hate you."

She laughed and rolled her eyes at him, the now immortal youth of her face shining through in her child-like playfulness. Still just the little girl in a grow-up situation. That's all either of them was: two children playing the adult. "It's what happens to people like us. It was going to be one of us on the end but I am dressed like a boy, and my father is not here to steal my boots, and I am content."

"I didn't have to be either of us! We could have made it."

"No." It sounded solemn, none of the humour in her face following through with the words. Her smile slowly dropped but it did not disappear. "But you could try."

Éponine's face had returned to stone as if she had never spoken, and Montparnasse closed his eyes in appreciation of the last moment they got to spent in each other's company. He took a stabilising breath and holding it tight in his lungs placed a kiss gently on her forehead as if too hard a motion would disturb her and replied, echoing her completely "Not without you."

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Thanks for reading!


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